


Alien Practice

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Brisen</p><p>Cally is curious about an aspect of human sexuality. Avon offers some practical instruction. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alien Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

Avon was flat on his back beneath one of the main systems consoles when the sound of booted feet heralded the arrival of Cally on the flight deck.  Intent on her mission, she failed to notice his legs sticking out from under the navigational control panels. 

She hopped lightly down the stairs and strode over to the central area of the room.  "Orac, tell me about the human sexual practice of flagellation."

Avon paused in his repair work and raised an eyebrow.  What had suddenly piqued Cally's interest in that, of all subjects?  But Orac had completed a search of his databases and was answering.  "Available information on this subject will take you approximately fourteen Earth years, eight months, twenty-one days, three hours and nineteen seconds to absorb.  Do you wish to continue?"

Cally's eyes widened.  "I had no idea it was so complex," she gasped.  "No, Orac - just - just - tell me about the rudiments of the practice and explain its appeal."

Orac's lights blinked disapprovingly.  "Your instructions are imprecise," he said.  "Kindly be more specific as to the parameters by which "rudiments" may be defined."

"Well, how should I know?" demanded Cally.  "I know nothing about this - this erotic flagellation, so I do not know what its rudiments might be!  That is why I'm asking you!"

Avon chuckled to himself and rose silently to his feet.  "Why this sudden interest?" he inquired. 

Cally jumped and spun round.  "Avon!  I didn't see you there!"

He smiled thinly.  "Evidently.  Well?"

Cally met his gaze unabashedly.  "We should reach Freedom City in two days.  I couldn't sleep, so I decided to read up about it.  The records mention clubs and other establishments catering to a number of unusual human sexual practices.  Most of them I have heard of, but this -"  She shrugged.  "We have no corresponding practice on Auron.  I didn't understand, so I thought I'd ask Orac.  But I don't seem to be getting anywhere."

"That," said Avon, "is scarcely surprising.  Orac is just a machine - an immensely sophisticated machine, but still just a machine.  You cannot expect him to offer a nuanced account of this type of psychosexual phenomenon.  You would have done better to have asked one of us."

"I thought it might cause you embarrassment," she replied.  "I know there are various cultural taboos surrounding human sexuality."  He glanced sharply at her, wondering if she was mocking him, but the greyish-brown eyes that met his were limpid, ingenuous.  For a moment he was tempted to offer her a practical demonstration; but he pushed the impulse firmly to the side.  Cally was of age; she was no fool, and she was certainly able to look after herself - but it would take a dishonourable degree of sophistry to persuade himself that she was in this instance a freely consenting adult when she had no understanding of what she might be consenting to.  Not that she was likely to accept such an offer in any case.  So instead, he gave her a considering look and demanded: "What do you want to know?"

Cally tilted her head.  "I do not understand the attraction of this practice.  Why should you wish to beat each other?  And even more, why should you wish to be beaten?  Is there perhaps some ritual significance?"

Not for the first time in his life, Kerr Avon was grateful that his slightly sallow skin was not prone to blushing.  He had expected her to ask for a simple dictionary definition.  A discussion of the sexual psychology behind this particular practice felt rather too personal for his liking, but there was nothing for it now.  Keeping his features impassive, he adopted his best lecturing tone and started pacing the room.  "The practice of erotic flagellation dates back at least to the eighteenth century of the Old Calendar.  Adherents were for many years considered to be sexually deviant, but the practice gained increasing acceptance during the liberal era of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries.  Flagellation is now considered a blameless, if not quite mainstream, element of sexual behaviour."

He paused, wondering how best to continue.  Cally frowned.  "I still don't understand.  How can whipping lead to sexual arousal?  Do participants whip one another's genitals?"

At that Avon felt a distinct movement in his groin.   _Stay detached_ , he told himself sternly;  _keep it dry and clinical._    _Imagine it's a question about astrophysics or cyberengineering_.  "For the submissive partner in the relationship, the arousal has both a physiological and a psychological aspect.  The buttocks are the site most usually selected to receive the whipping.  The human buttocks are an erogenous zone in their own right; the increased blood flow to the genital area also results in arousal.  In psychological terms, the eroticism lies in the pleasure of surrender, of abdicating all control and responsibility to another.  The cultural roots of erotic flagellation are thought to lie in the corporal punishment administered to children in Old Calendar days, and many of the rituals associated with the practice invoke the dichotomies of domination and submission, infraction and correction, punishment and mercy."

Cally looked horrified.  "That's barbaric!"

He nodded.  "Almost all sectors of human society now regard the infliction of physical punishment on a child as a criminal offence - and rightly so.  Corporal punishment these days is strictly confined to relations between consenting adults."

She relaxed slightly.  "Then... if that is the attraction for the - the submissive partner - what does the dominant one gain from it?"

For the first time Avon permitted the shadow of a smile to touch his lips.  He resumed his measured tread of the flight deck.  "That satisfaction is a little more difficult to define - but no less real, I can assure you.  Firstly, there is the pleasure of control over another.  Closely allied to that - in some cases, at least - is the pleasure of giving.  Oh, yes," as Cally looked bewildered, "the dominant partner assumes complete responsibility for the well-being and pleasure of his - or her - lover.  And finally..."  He hesitated.  Was this too personal an admission?  But he had already started the sentence; it would be more dignified to finish.  "Finally," he said evenly, "there is the satisfaction of having the entire attention of one's partner focused on oneself - every sense fastened upon your absolute power to give pleasure... or pain."

She was staring at him, eyes wide, dilated, as if she had never really seen him before.  His body felt subtly charged, his skin supersensitive, as if an electric current were running through his veins.  He took a step towards her.  "Do you understand, Cally?" he asked softly. 

Her breathing was shallow.  "I - I think so," she whispered.

The silence was broken by heavy footsteps.  Blake, coming to take over the night watch.  Avon made up his mind.  He raised a hand to cup the line of her jaw.  "If you wish to pursue this subject," he murmured, "come to my cabin in half an hour."  He offered her a rare smile, then stalked from the room.

 

Cally stood uncertainly outside Avon's door.  She raised her hand to knock; hesitated; returned it to her side; then raised it again.  She gave herself a mental shake.  She had made up her mind to go through with this.  How hard could it be?   _Very, with Avon_ , came the unbidden thought.  The butterflies in her stomach fluttered faster.

She could leave now - tiptoe away down the corridor and return to the sanctuary of her own room.  But no - quiet as she had been, Avon would have been sure to have heard her approach.  If she fled he would know; and that was something her pride could never allow.  And - she had to admit - she was curious.  She wanted to know.  She swallowed hard, and tapped.

He opened the door to her almost at once and stood aside to let her through, placing one guiding hand lightly upon her back.  He had removed the jacket he had worn on the flight deck, and was simply dressed in charcoal-grey trousers and shirt.   

Cally looked around.  She had never been in Avon's quarters before.  It was tidy, ordered - Avon's room could never be anything else - but there were unexpected touches of sensuality amidst the austerity: the bed was draped in something soft and crimson, while the walls were adorned with an eclectic mix of documents amongst which she recognised several antiquarian microcircuitry diagrams, a couple of star charts and a series of mounted sheets of musical notation from pre-atomic Earth.  She noted with faint relief that the cabin seemed innocent of whips, canes and other likely instruments of flagellation.  But then again, perhaps human etiquette required that such items were disposed of with discretion.

Avon came to stand in front of her.  He placed both hands on her shoulders and gazed down at her - though not very far, for she was almost as tall as him.  "You came," he said.  She nodded mutely.  "And are you sure - quite sure - that you want to do this?"  Again she nodded.  " Yes," she whispered, and then, in a stronger voice, "but I do not know exactly what to do." 

He smiled - a slight smile.  "I will tell you."  He took her by the hand and led her to the corner.  "Stand here - facing the wall." 

She stared at him in surprise.  "Is this some kind of joke?"

His voice hardened.  "It's no joke.  Do as I tell you."  Wonderingly, she obeyed.  "That's better.  Now, you will stand there, without speaking or turning round, and await my pleasure.  Is that clear?"

"Yes," she murmured.  It seemed to be the correct response, for he made no comment.  She sensed rather than saw that he had turned away from her and was moving about the room.  She heard the sound of drawers opening, the soft  _thunk_  of something heavy being laid down.  She debated turning her head a little so that she could see what he was doing, but perhaps that would spoil the ritual?  She felt vulnerable standing there, straining her ears to catch his movements, unable to see anything but the ten centimetre squared patch of his bedroom wall.  That, she decided, must be the point.  The realisation sent an odd thrill through her.

She became aware that Avon was no longer moving about the cabin.  She had no idea where he was, though she felt certain he was still in the room. The silence crackled on her skin.

"Cally."  She jumped.  His voice was just behind her ear.  She could feel his breath on the back of her neck.  "Easy," he murmured, laying a hand between her shoulders, "easy... easy..."  Her breathing steadied, but not for long, as he drew his hand slowly down to the base of her spine.  One long finger rubbed gently at the point where her tailbone met the cleft of her bottom.  She shivered and sighed, making a mental note of this new and unexpected erogenous zone. 

Avon continued.  "Now, Cally, do you know why you are here?"

She blinked in confusion.  Her mind was swimming, sinking in the slow, delicious waves he was drawing from her.  "Because - because you asked me?" she ventured.

"And you obeyed.  And do you know why I asked you here, Cally?"

She was in too deep.  She floundered for an answer.  Her cheeks grew hot.  She had no idea of the responses required by this ritual - she was going to disappoint him.  "I - I don't know," she whispered.

But he didn't seem disappointed.  She even thought she heard him chuckle softly.  "Then I'll tell you,"  His voice was dark, cool.  "I brought you here to administer correction.  You need discipline, Cally - more discipline than even you can supply for yourself.  You're a rebel, an exile.  You defied the Auron authorities.  You ran away from home; and now you are alone, cut off from your people.  You believe you have no one but yourself to depend upon.  You do whatever you want, whenever you please, regardless of whether or not it is good for you.  Don't you?"

She didn't answer - couldn't answer.  Her knees were trembling.  Her throat hurt.  She had never dreamed it would be like this, never dreamed that Avon - that  _any_  of these people, these silent people - could have probed so deeply into her soul.  She felt her body thrill to his touch at the same time as her heart spasmed in pain.  Tears rose to her eyes; her breath shortened; her vision dimmed...

But she had taken too long to respond.  The caressing hand left her spine, fastened upon the nape of her neck.  "Answer me, Cally."  In the voice, no less than the grip, there was a hint of steel.  She swallowed, marshalled her defences.  "Your words are - meaningless - to me," she managed tightly.

"Don't lie to me."  The hand moved up to twine, none too gently, in her hair.  "Don't think I haven't noticed.  You hardly eat - you barely sleep.  You stay up all hours, reading - pining - who knows? - and you confide in no one.  Who's going to take you in hand, Cally?  Who's going to offer you the support you need?  Certainly not Jenna, or Gan, or Vila.  Not Blake, for all his avuncular posturing.  But you need support.  Don't you, Cally?  Don't you?"

Her whole body was shaking now.  She had tried to hide the loneliness of exile in a layer of competence and self-sufficiency.  She had succeeded, she thought - succeeded so well that most of the time she even managed to deceive herself.  But Avon, Avon with his chill detachment masking who knew what painful secret, Avon had seen through her - seen through her, it seemed, with ease.

With a titanic effort she mastered herself.  "What are you going to do?" she whispered.

"I'm going to whip you," he returned; and it seemed to her that already his voice held something of the rich tang of blood.   His mouth was inches from her ear.  "I'm going to push you until your defences give way and you surrender yourself completely.    But first - "

He let go of her hair.  She swayed dizzily, disoriented by the sudden loss of contact, but the next moment his arms were about her.  He pulled her close, pressing her to him, dusting kisses over her neck, her throat, her hair.  She tried to twist her head around so that she could seek his lips with her own, but he stopped her with a murmur.  "Stay still, Cally.  Leave it to me."  And so she did.  She sighed as he kissed along the sensitive lines of her jaw and collarbone; shuddered as he traced circles along her arms with his fingers; then, as his hands moved smoothly across her stomach, she arched backwards so she could feel the hard length of him against her buttocks.  He growled, deep in his throat; his breath was coming faster.  Then his grip tightened.  "Enough," he snapped.

"Avon?"  She tried to turn, but his grip was inflexible.  For a moment she was afraid she had done something wrong; but her fears evaporated in a new wave of heat as he ran his hands slowly down her body and murmured, "It's time.  Turn round, Cally."

She turned slowly to face him.  The expression in his black eyes made her shiver.  For a moment or two he said nothing.  Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked searchingly at her, just as he had done on her arrival.  "Before we begin, Cally, there is one more thing you should know - something I almost forgot to tell you.  During the course of our activities, there may well come a point where you ask me - beg me - to stop.   _You must know that I shall not do it._   Hearing you plead is part of my pleasure - and pleading may well become part of yours. 

"But you must also know that I shall not inflict upon you any pain that you genuinely do not desire.  To this end it is customary to use a system of code words - safe words.  Words which I cannot help but notice because they have no other possible application in this context."

Slowly Cally let out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.  "You mean like 'omelette' - or 'teleport'?" she demanded, and was treated to the rare sight of Avon laughing.  "Perhaps not quite so prosaic," he said.  "There's an old Earth tongue called French, now largely fallen out of use.  But for centuries it was considered to be the language of chivalry and romance.  Now, if you want me to deal more gently with you, the word is ' _lentement_ '.  Can you remember that?"

She nodded.  " _Lentement._ "

"If at any time you are frightened, or if you want the pain to stop altogether, the word is ' _arrêtez_ '."

" _Arrêtez_ ," she repeated.

"Good."  He stepped back, allowing his dark gaze to sweep her body, studying her.  His face was curiously gentle - gentle beyond anything Cally had ever imagined.  She had known Avon bored, cynical, dangerous, angry.  For some reason, his gentleness was infinitely more terrifying.  He stroked a finger along her cheekbone, and she trembled.  He dropped his hand.  "Undress."

She complied.  He watched as she stepped out of her boots, pulled off leggings and tunic to stand in her underwear.  Deftly he unfastened her bra, dropped it to the floor, ran delicate fingers over her small, white breasts.  "Beautiful," he murmured.  Then, with a sudden movement, he caught her wrists and held them behind her, and his mouth came down hot and hard upon her own.  Transferring both her hands to one of his, he ran the other over her body, circling and tweaking at her nipples, dipping between her legs, slipping beneath the elastic of her knickers to squeeze at her buttocks.  His touch was skilled, assured.  She moaned. 

Then he was lifting her and carrying her to the narrow bed.  He sat down with her on his lap, gave her a final kiss, then: "Get up," he ordered.  "Now."

She was sick and reeling with desire, but something in his tone made her respond immediately.  She scrambled off his lap, blushing beneath his long, cool look.  She noticed that the pillows had been removed from the head of the bed.  One supported Avon's back; the other lay to his left. 

He gestured to the bedside table.  "Bring that here."  His voice had darkened with lust.  Glancing round, she saw a heavy leather belt coiled neatly beside the electronic books and table lamp.  She picked it up then stood awkwardly, unsure of her role in this alien rite.  He noticed at once, took control.  "Come here."  She edged towards him.  "Good... that's it.  Now kneel down; and offer me the belt.  Good girl."  He took it from her, and she noticed that he now wore a leather glove on his right hand.  Trembling, she fixed her eyes on his lap, avoiding his eyes, but he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back.  "Take down your knickers," he ordered, "and bend over my knee."

She was clumsy at first, unsure of what he expected, but he took her hand to guide her, pulling her forwards so that her bottom was positioned over his right leg and her upper body was supported by the pillow.  Her legs were restrained by her panties, which Avon had dragged down to her trembling knees.  She felt her face grow hot as she imagined the view she must present to him.  She'd assumed that when he whipped her he would make her lie on the bed, or stand against the wall.  She had certainly never imagined she would be as exposed as this.

She clenched her fists in the bedclothes and waited for the first blow to fall.  It never came.  Instead she felt cool leather brush softly against her skin.  He was caressing her, petting her quivering bottom, running his gloved fingers round the crease of her buttocks and slipping them teasingly between her thighs.  She relaxed, moaning a little beneath his touch.  "That's better," he murmured.  "Much better."  He dropped a kiss on her curly brown head, watching as her hands slowly unclenched.  "That's it.  Now, shall we proceed?"

She nodded dumbly, too overcome for speech.  His left hand tightened on her back.  "Very good.  Now, Cally, I want you to remember that I am doing this for your own good."  She felt, rather than saw, his wolfish smile.  "And, of course, for mine."  And with that he brought his leather-gloved hand down hard across her bottom.

Despite his preparation the first few blows took her by surprise.  Then the pain began to register and she found herself gritting her teeth, determined not to cry out.  Avon kept up a steady rhythm, working his way methodically over her bottom with the same efficiency he brought to every task.  She could feel his breathing, smooth and regular, and the slow beat of his heart.  The pain was building now, increasing geometrically with every fresh blow.  One particularly sharp slap drew a whimper from her, and when the next one landed almost on top of it she was unable to stop herself from kicking out at him.  Then, with a gasp, she found her wrists manacled in an iron grip and felt her body being pulled forwards so that her bottom was now positioned over Avon's left knee.  In the same smooth movement he locked his right leg over hers, effectually preventing her from struggling.  Meanwhile the beating continued without a pause, but with a variation in tactics as Avon aimed blow after rapid blow at the same sensitive spot.  Cally clenched her fists on the pillow.  She might have known Avon would do nothing by halves.  If this was what it felt like when he hit her with his hand, how would she endure it if he moved onto the belt?  A sudden, suffocating wave of terror crashed down on her.  She groped for the safe words, but they had vanished in a haze of pain and fear.  She ground her teeth.   _She would not cry.  She would not beg.  She would not plead._

But as she lay there, helpless in his lap, a new sensation stole upon her.  At first, wrapped up as she was in the focused pain he was producing, she hardly knew it for what it was.  Then, as desire coiled up through her loins to her breasts, her belly, she understood.  In this position Avon's erect cock was hard against her clitoris, and with every fresh blow he rubbed against her.  She wriggled longingly.  Surreptitiously, for she had no idea whether it was expected, or indeed permitted, she began to rock herself backwards and forwards.  Softly she started to moan, not knowing whether she did so from pleasure or pain.  Realising what she was doing, he shifted slightly to allow her more freedom, and his left hand sought her breast even as his right continued its assault on her bottom.  Cally writhed and whimpered, past caring now what she looked like, as he brought her close to her peak.

Then, without warning, he stopped.  She turned round, bewildered.  "Why have you stopped?" she demanded plaintively. 

His eyes were like black ice.  "You're enjoying it too much."  She began to straighten up indignantly, but he forced her down with a hand on her back.  "Not yet, Cally, not yet.  Did you really think it would be that easy?  I told you I would whip you until every last defence gave way.  You're nowhere near that yet.  Nowhere near."  He drew off the glove and trailed the back of his hand across her bottom, cool against her burning skin.  "You remember the safe words?"

She gulped.  " _Lentement.  Arrêtez_." 

"Very good.  Now, shall we continue?"

She heard the faint slither of leather against fabric.  The next moment came the crack of the belt, white-hot leather on red-hot skin.  Cally couldn't help it.  She screamed.

Seven more blows followed swiftly on the first.  Soon she was sobbing.  "Avon!" she cried.  "Avon, please don't!  I can't take any more!"

"Yes, you can," he replied coldly.  And proceeded to prove it with another series of welts across her bottom.  She felt his grasp tighten and his breathing quicken as she bucked and pleaded, everything forgotten but the need to escape his belt.  She lost count of the number of times he struck her.  Stroke fell on stroke with impossible inevitability, until at length she could struggle no more.  She lay unresistingly in his lap, crying quietly, and still he flogged her.  She forgot herself; forgot Avon; forgot Auron and exile, loss and longing, desire and fear.  There was only pain.  Pain, filling up the void of loneliness and silence; pain, making her forget her isolation; pain, breaching the barriers between her and humanity.

He gathered her into his arms.  He held her close, running his cool hands over her hot forehead, her tortured skin, and she buried her face in his shoulder and cried as she had never cried before. 

Much, much later, he kissed her last tears away.  She looked up.  His eyes were very soft.  " _Avon_ _..._   _thank you_."  A telepathic whisper.  She knew that he would hear.

And then, with infinite tenderness, they made love.


End file.
